


The Poker Night That Never Was

by cameronclaire



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Drunken Flirting, During KH 358/2 Days, Excessive PDA, Go Fish, Hanging Out, Hat Theft, M/M, Multi, Organization XIII (Kingdom Hearts), Poker Night, Secret Relationship, Song: Wonderwall (Oasis), pirates of the caribbean - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cameronclaire/pseuds/cameronclaire
Summary: Luxord's been blackmailing his fellow Organization members to join his poker league from day one. Mandatory game nights are held once a month in pirate territory. Unfortunately, half his players have recently bitten the dust. Poker night now entails third wheeling Xigbar and Demyx and dealing with a gossip-hungry tavern owner all by his lonesome until Axel and Roxas decide to show up. -If- Axel and Roxas decide to show up. Xigbar's betting they're too busy hooking up. Luxord's not convinced.
Relationships: Axel/Roxas (Kingdom Hearts), Demyx/Luxord/Xigbar (Kingdom Hearts), Demyx/Xigbar (Kingdom Hearts)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 15





	1. Quid Pro Quo

**Author's Note:**

> The Poker Night That Never Was was originally part of my 358 Nights fic but has taken on a life of its own and gotten long, so I will be posting it as its own separate fic as here, and updating it in both places.

If it weren’t for Saïx’s schedules, the entire Organization would crumble. At least, according to Saïx. 

Overnight patrol duty is just one of many, _many_ rotations assigned to each member each day. Its purported, primary goal: to protect the hallowed halls of the Castle That Never Was in the midnight hours. Its actual goal: to enforce curfew, so Saïx can get some shut eye. 

Once overnight patrol duty kicked off, it became quickly apparent which Organization members you don’t want to run into alone in a dark hallway in the middle of the night, and which you don’t mind so much.

Because Luxord has no interest in reporting _anyone_ for being out of bed past curfew _any_ night of the month—he is typically the best option. That is, provided you’re willing to go in on a little _quid pro quo_ a.k.a. poker night a.k.a. buy Luxord a pint once a month and go in on a hand, or two, or twelve of dealer’s choice. 

And if it feels kind of like blackmail, well, Luxord’s not above that. 

Lately, poker nights have been held in the drafty back rooms of boozy pubs and disreputable inns on a messy little island called Tortuga. Frequented predominantly by pirates and smugglers, it’s the kind of place where nobody asks a Nobody too many questions and everyone’s too blitzed to remember a face. So, it’s the kind of place the Organization likes to be. 

The original plan had been to periodically switch up locations, but that was a pain in the ass because nobody ever portaled in at the same time and someone was always going to the wrong place and waiting around for a half hour, then getting pissy about it—which was fine when it was Demyx, but less fine when it was Xigbar. 

So, lately, poker nights have been held at Gibbs’ place—Gibbs being a graying old sailor bearing a kind, round face and fluffy white beard with high sideburns and a ponytail. 

They like Gibbs well enough. The pub owner’s the solid, reliable sort, with a lively, certain cadence to his voice—always ready to hear or tell a good story, sing a sea shanty, or call for another round.

And, yeah, maybe Gibbs has been getting a little _too_ familiar with the lot of them. And, yeah, maybe he asks _way_ too many questions. But, despite his claims to a former career in piracy under the service of Captains Barbossa and Sparrow—not to mention the Royal Navy—he’s, generally speaking, harmless as a slice of cold cheese pizza. 

Most importantly, he gives them complimentary beer bread if they don’t start a brawl in the first half hour of coming around. So, they let ‘im slide. 

Xigbar’s the first one in. He likes to be. More time to get the lay of the land and drink in peace. Outside of that Cuddly Duckling joint in Corona—the one with all the fucking, god-awful, pitchy flash mob song and dance numbers—Tortuga’s among the only places he can travel where he can walk up to a bar and take a seat without turning the heads of everyone in the joint. 

The tables and booths of Gibb’s pub are pleasantly crowded as usual, accordion music drifting through shouts and tipsy conversation. Xigbar’s got half a stein down before Gibbs notices him. A couple more gulps before Gibbs works up the nerve to approach, false cheer marked with frozen dimples. “Why, Sniper, me lad, you’re early!” 

“Yeah.” Xigbar chuckles into the foam of his drink. “Thank the Lord.”

“Ah, crews be like families,” Gibbs reasons in his infinite wisdom, borne of the sea salt breeze, “and we all fancy a break from the family every now and ag’in, I always say.” 

Xigbar rolls his eyes but nods. 

Gibbs glances around the room for more of Xigbar’s usual company, but doesn’t spot them. “Haven’t gotten a table for your crew o’ thirteen together yet, but I—”

“Don’t bother.” Xigbar interrupts with a quick slash of his hand. “We ain’t expecting much of a crowd tonight.” 

Gibbs’ brows go up, finding something in Xigbar’s tone rather ominous, but before he can ask, the door to his pub swings open, near off its hinge, and brings with it a jaunty gust of guitar music and a lanky blond. 

Said blond strums and sings like the sound’s possessing him, sashaying in with fast, certain steps, each synced with the rhythm of his next note. The tune reminds Xigbar of a soft rock ballad, entirely out of place in this world, though the pretty young women hanging on Demyx’s arms, swaying their hips, don’t seem to mind. 

_“And after all~ You’re my wonderwall~”_

Xigbar chokes, the ale burning his throat and nose. The nearby patrons of the pub nod and sway along. Feet start to stamp as Demyx twirls and plays, steps light, and the women on his arms whirl, their skirts billowing and their giggles airy.

_“You’re my wonderwall~”_

Xigbar sighs, sparing the ruckus over his shoulder the briefest of glares before plunking down his drink. “Dumb little shit…” 

“Now, wait just a—” Gibbs’ grin at the music dims as Xigbar eases onto his feet, but Gibbs doesn’t dare make a grab for his arm. 

Xigbar ignores the objection and strolls up to Demyx with heavy, confident steps. He claps his gloved hands together, slow and out of beat with the song, and Demyx stops dancing to turn his way. 

The young women retreat behind Demyx’s lanky height as the large, muscular man draws nearer, but Demyx remains where he is—rather idiotically, in the opinion of the spectators—only a foot out of the doorway, strumming in challenge, an easy grin on his face. 

_“I said maybe~ You’re gonna be the one that saves me~ Because after all—”_

No more than a foot apart, Xigbar stops clapping and Demyx stops playing. 

And probably, Xigbar figures, he should give Demyx a hard time, but on the other hand, it is his night off. 

Xigbar sets a hand on Demyx’s shoulder, the rigid line of his mouth twitching just enough for Demyx’s eyes to catch. “Why you always gotta make a fucking scene, kid?”  
  
“Psh.” Demyx tilts his head, a strand of hair flipping into his eye, and grins up at the scarred, muscled man, strums another chord, swishes his hips. “You liked it.”

Demyx’s fangirls shriek as Xigbar moves in on Demyx, but the shrieks muffle and abruptly die as they watch the scarred, older man crush their mouths together. Demyx’s grin brightens, guitar shifting behind his back, body molding to Xigbar’s like water. 

People shout, jeer, laugh, and in the distance, after a few hesitant squawks, the accordion starts up again.

Their mouths break just long enough for Demyx to manage, “Now who’s making a scene?” 

And Xigbar to counter, “It’s your own fucking fault,” before scooping him up by the ass and pressing their lips together again. 

A throat clears loudly beside them, and Xigbar maneuvers them closer to the bar to another round of catcalls. 

The throat clearing follows them, punctuated by an, “Um, Sniper, sir?”

Xigbar sets Demyx up on the bar, lifting his drink and turning around. He petrifies the pub owner not with his golden, one-eyed stare or the slosh of his tankard, but with the murderous smirk he follows it up with. “ _Yes,_ Gibbs?”

Gibbs swallows, motions a bit loosely with his hand, then eventually just nods over his shoulder. At a corner table amid the bustle, Luxord sits alone, silver-backed cards fanned out in one hand and a brimming mug of amber grog in the other. He raises the cards in their direction. 

Xigbar salutes back, then turns to pat Demyx’s cheek though he’s pouting something fierce. “Game time.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Demyx complains, sliding off the counter in resignation. He starts thrumming “Luck Be a Lady Tonight” as Xigbar signals the bartender for another couple drinks. “Game time.”

Together they make their way to the card table. 


	2. The Interesting Half

It’s not that Luxord’s entirely opposed to the idea of sitting around and watching Demyx and Xigbar trade saliva. There is something intriguing about the single-minded intensity with which they go about it. 

The way Demyx’s hands trace the well-defined muscles beneath Xigbar’s coat, and Xigbar’s fingers curl into Demyx’s carefully crafted hair, their nails digging in, careless of whether they meet skin or leather, yanking each other closer until one coat is indistinguishable from the other and the heat radiating off of them is so thick he can almost _smell_ the sweat… 

He’d be all for it really. It’s just that it’s encroaching on his poker night. 

So Luxord shuffles once more and then flips a card across the table like a boomerang. It nicks them both in the neck before curving back and settling neatly between Luxord’s outstretched fingertips once more. 

The two tear apart immediately, hands flying to their fresh, minuscule paper cuts, coming away tipped in red. 

“Hey!” Demyx gripes, quickly overshadowed by Xigbar’s thunderous, “What the fuck?”

“Oh, wherever are my manners?” Luxord deadpans, arching a neat golden brow. “Did I interrupt?” 

Xigbar strategically shifts Demyx to one side of his lap so he can set an arm on the table and glare across it. “You got something to say, Lux?”

Luxord sets the card down. “Round one. Just trying to determine whether you two are in or out.”

“Feels like maybe we should be asking _you_ that,” Xigbar jeers, fingertips toying with Demyx’s coat zipper as if in open invitation, though Demyx noticeably balks at the notion. “I mean, c’mon. We really going to play _poker_ with three people? There are better ways to kill time.”

“Yeah, where is everybody?” Demyx glances around, meaning to search for other familiar faces, but becoming distracted by his guitar, abandoned on the tabletop. He slides into the chair beside Xigbar’s and, slipping the strap around his neck, begins to fiddle with it. “I mean, I know Xaldin rage quit after his shit luck at strip poker, but Larxene’s usually here beating all our asses by now.”

Luxord and Xigbar exchange confused glances. 

Demyx winces, stretches an arm behind his head. “What?” 

“Uh,” Xigbar’s glove wraps the back of Demyx’s neck, “Larxene’s dead, honey bun. ‘ _C.O. got K.O.’d,’_ remember?” 

“Oh.” Demyx looks puzzled for a moment and then hearing his own words echoed back to him kicks his brain into gear. “Oh, yeah! Duh. Totally forgot about that whole Castle Oblivion clusterfuck.” His attention returns to his guitar, he smirks. “Good riddance, man.”

Luxord frowns his disapproval, and Xigbar lets out a bark of laughter, squeezing the back of Demyx’s neck and then letting go as a shadow falls across the table. 

“Good riddance to what?” Gibbs inquires with a good-natured smile, nestling a basket of smoking, warm beer bread in the center of their table beside a bundle of exhausted napkins and nicked cutlery. 

Xigbar’s smile is sharper than the bread knife Gibbs stabs into the fresh loaf. “Larxene.”

“Your crew’s little she-devil?” Gibbs smiles a different kind of smile. “Take off with a man, did she?”

Xigbar pulls the bread basket his way. “In a manner of speaking.” 

“Davy Jones,” Luxord replies, more familiar with the local lingo than the other two. 

Gibbs staggers slightly, catching himself on the back of a chair. “Good heavens, no! She’s dead?” 

“Yeah.” Demyx fidgets with one of his guitar’s tuning keys and plucks out a discordant note. “Apparently, like, super dead.” 

Gibbs’ hand settles over his heart, sobering gaze passing between the other two, “’Tis no easy feat to lose a crew member. I am sorry to hear it.” 

“Thank you,” Luxord replies tonelessly, sliding a bread plate out from the stack. Xigbar merely nods, proceeding to slice up the loaf. 

“You’d be the only one,” Demyx mutters, and Xigbar _should_ choke down his snort for Gibbs’ sake, but he doesn’t. 

The silence is distinctly uncomfortable. For Gibbs. Fortunately, working in a bar, he’s accustomed to making hasty retreats from awkward scenarios, and he promptly nods toward their unusually small table.

“Well, you’ll be needin’ a few more chairs, I reckon?”

“Er… no.” Shifting his deck of cards out of the way, Luxord accepts the delicious smelling plate of bread Xigbar passes him. “I’d wager we’ll all fit here for the night.”

“Surely not?” Gibbs bites his lip, trying to remember a night their crowd was any fewer than seven strong. “Those two big, burly fellows never miss a game, do they?” 

_Lexaeus, Xaldin._

Luxord dismisses the notion with a swish of his butter knife. “They won’t be joining us.”

Through his evening buzz, Gibbs gradually recalls the other faces that typically crowd his tables each month. _Not difficult to recollect, really, considering their mystically dyed hair, strange manners, deep pockets..._ “And what of your doctor? And your priest? And your botanist?”

_Vexen, Zexion, Marluxia._

Xigbar glances up, really _tries_ to muffle the smile. “Also not coming.”

“They’re not…also…” Gibbs cringes as the men in dark coats continue to cut and butter the beer bread instead of reacting. “...Are they?”

Xigbar offers a theatrical little sigh. “’Fraid so.”

“Damn,” crumbs spill down Demyx’s chin, and Xigbar can’t resist the urge to come at him with a napkin, garbling the rest of his words, “zounds baff when you put it all togeffer like bat.”

Weighed down by the news, Gibbs slides into the seat at Luxord’s side. Luxord pats him on the back because, if he’s recalling correctly, that’s the thing to do, and he figures at least one of them ought to be trying to keep up regular human appearances. 

“There, there, old man. It’s all as the fates designed.” Luxord slides his tankard Gibbs’ way. “Have yourself a drink.” 

Gibbs obediently takes a hefty swig. Being a sailor, he isn’t a stranger to loss, _but this particular crew had been at the height of their youth and tough as you please…_

Gibbs taken care of, Luxord nods to Xigbar and Demyx. “Now then, anyone know any three-person card games?”

Gibbs about spits out the swallow he’s just taken. 

Xigbar groans, burying his face in Demyx’s shoulder as Luxord ponders their options. 

Demyx glances between the two expectantly, and when nothing is proposed, shrugs. “I mean, there’s always _Go Fish,_ man.” 

“What the hell is _Go Fish?_ ” Xigbar asks, words hot against Demyx’s neck, though he doesn’t seem particularly invested in the answer, his teeth nudging into sensitive skin, causing Demyx to squeak and swat at the gunman’s broad chest to no avail.  
  
“Hm.” Luxord slides the deck Demyx’s direction. “I’m not familiar with it, but it sounds thematically appropriate to me.”

“What, seriously?” Demyx’s jaw drops open a little, as he picks up the cards. He squeaks again before elbowing Xigbar’s ribs. “None of you have heard of _Go Fish?_ ” 

Gibbs’ mug settles harshly against the table as he rises abruptly to his feet. “You three are mighty cool for a group who’s lost half their crew.” 

“Almost half,” Xigbar corrects, shifting his cheek onto Demyx’s shoulder to stare down his companions.

Luxord exhales through his nose, splays his hand on the table. _“Xigbar.”_

“Well, technically speaking, only _almost_ half.” Xigbar shuts his eye to better ignore the reprimand. “And not even, like, the _interesting_ half.”

“What the devil is wrong with you lot?” Gibbs seethes, bushy, graying eyebrows furrowing, lifting up a napkin to wring between his palms.

Luxord exhales again, hands raising, “You’ll forgive us, Mr. Gibbs, we had a—What do you call it around these parts?—a _mutiny_ on our hands. We’ve undergone losses on both sides.”

“And been working double time to make up for it,” Xigbar grunts, straightening to draw his beer closer. “At this point, we’d prefer to drink, fuck, and forget.” 

Demyx groans but whether from the reminder of their hefty workload or the sudden lack of warmth is unclear. 

“No.” The napkin flutters back to the tabletop. They watch Gibbs work this over, stern expression going slack as he looks at what’s left of the lively crew in a new light—their shoulders slumped, their faces haggard, their appetites like men half-starved. 

“No, but...” Gibbs slumps back down into his chair. “But yous were all so close!” 

All three Nobodies laugh. This time they can’t help it. 

“Yep.” Xigbar doesn’t open his eye. “Hung the traitors out to dry ourselves. Or, well,” he smirks, “Axel did, anyway.”

Gibbs sets his head in his hand and then abruptly glances up, misunderstanding. “Don’t you be telling me Red Jack’s dead too?”

Gibbs had grown particularly fond of Axel, whose swagger and wild hair reminded him of a local legend he had once been well-acquainted with, an infamous Captain Jack Something or Other. And, Axel, for his part, seemed to almost _enjoy_ regaling Gibbs with colorful, elaborate tales of Captain Xemnas and his mighty, fearsome crew off on adventures to battle against monsters who swallow hearts whole. 

Axel seemed to weave half-spun truths with blatant lies as easily as breathing. He’d lost several Organization members’ trust mid-tale but completely captivated Gibbs’.

“And…” Gibbs glances up at the silence. He takes Luxord’s hesitant, utterly blank expression as confirmation of the worst and buries his eyes in his palm again, “your cabin boy? Oy, gods, please don’t tell me anything befell the sweet, young angel…” 

Luxord pats Gibbs’ shoulder some more. “Rest assured, Mr. Gibbs, both are quite well.”

“Yeah, Axel’s no turncoat.” Bread polished off, Xigbar’s set to lighting up a cigarette to stem his urge to drink more, but he pauses mid-light to smirk. “He and his first mate, Saïx, are quite close.” 

Luxord chuckles. _First mate._ “Nice pun.” 

The end of the cigarette blazes, bobs around a muffled, “Fank you.” 

“Huh?” Demyx head tilts, but Xigbar hastily shuts up the inquiry, placing his own cigarette between Demyx’s lips and lighting up another. 

Gibbs does not look entirely reassured, so Luxord nods toward the entrance, crowded with sailors embracing or fighting or maybe just staggering drunk. 

“They ought to be arriving any moment now, provided that Roxas hasn’t completely forgotten, and Axel’s not already in bed.” Luxord strokes his goatee thoughtfully. “Ordinarily, I’d send for them, but they have had quite a long week. Perhaps they need their rest.”

Either this set him at ease or the alcohol is kicking in, because Gibbs’ teeth show crooked through his wry grin. “Can’t imagine the pair of them’ll be getting too much _rest_ though, mm?”

Xigbar chuckles and then coughs as he inhales a mouthful of tobacco smoke. Luxord’s brows arch gracefully, and Demyx gets a tight crinkle between his.

Gibbs’ smile slips. “Y’know, alone? ...Together?”

The responses do not change, though Xigbar manages to get his breathing under control.

Gibbs coughs a bit. “... In _bed._ ”

Demyx’s cigarette drops to the table as he bursts into laughter. “Axel and _Roxas?_ No fucking way.” 

Xigbar’s not laughing anymore as he retrieves the thing and replaces it. His fingertips linger too long on Demyx’s lips, as he catches Gibbs’ eye. The corner of his lip quirks up and he nods as if in approval. “You see it too, eh?”

Luxord sets down his drink with a harsh objecting sound. “What utter nonsense...”

Gibbs nods sagely, eyeing the crowded tables, sailors of all flags gathering under his roof day in and day out. “Working here, life I’ve led, I’ve seen just about everything.”

Luxord leans back in his seat, posture impeccable as ever and smiles, resting his wrists on the tabletop. “Don’t be so sure of that.”

Gibbs sighs. Much as he despises arrogance, he can’t expect these men to believe a humble pub keeper’s seen cursed Aztec gold and skeleton crews. He opts to move on. “I’m just grateful nothing’s befallen the dear young lads.” 

Grinning through another puff of smoke, Xigbar taps the rim of Gibbs’ drink, a silent entreaty for him to take it up again and stop killing the mood. “Like you said, the only thing to befall Axel’s _cabin boy_ is Axel.” 

“Don’t be so harsh, Sniper.” Gibbs draws the tankard nearer, cocks his head obligingly. “I do believe Roxas is quite content with that particular _position._ ” 

“If not, I’m sure Axel can think of a few more,” Xigbar retorts and they both laugh outright. 

Luxord tsks, head shaking. “Axel’d boil you alive for suggesting such a thing.”

“Only ‘cause it’s true.” Xigbar winks, turning to wrap an arm around Demyx’s shoulders and see how he’s taking the news. 

Demyx doesn’t pull away, wrapping a hand over Xigbar’s to keep him in place, but he does lean back, skepticism tugging his face at strange angles. “Don’t be ridiculous, Xiggy. Axel’s always complaining about getting stuck on missions with zombie kid.”

Xigbar’s smile turns indulgent. “And I used to complain about training you. Had to teach you everything under the sun and keep you out of the firing range of the others. Was fucking exhausting, mind you, because, first off, you were so damn lazy and, second, you were so damn _distracting…_ ”

His arm flexes, drawing Demyx closer, and receives a sheepish smile and shrug in return. “Well, the distracting part was to make you less of a hardass so I could get back to the lazy part.” His lips draw closer to Xigbar’s ear, tone quieter, “And I’m pretty sure I did awesome.”

“Tch.” Xigbar pats Demyx’s leg with his free hand. “Small price to pay.”

Luxord leans wearily on one fist, propped against the table, but his tone remains proper and confident as ever, “So what I believe you’re saying is you might be _projecting_.”

Xigbar barely glances at him, grin turning somehow smugger, as Demyx leans back and stretches a leg across his lap. “What I’m saying is I know what I’m talking about.”

“What about Xion?” Luxord proposes. “She seems quite taken with our Roxas.” 

Gibbs’ mouth opens in silent inquiry, further proof that he’s learned entirely too much, milling about the table of this fascinatingly strange set of foreigners while his bartender and waitstaff run his business for him. 

“Xion’s our—er— _other_ cabin boy,” Luxord adds.

Xigbar’s gold eye rolls and his chuckle is cold. “If by ‘taken,’ you mean they’ve said more than three words to each other, then sure. Poppet’s probably hearing wedding bells.” 

As he speaks, Xigbar slides back the coat caught on Demyx’s leg and begins to lazily massage his calf through cool, form-fitting black trousers. 

Demyx’s eyes slip half shut and he looks about ready to start purring. Xigbar removes his other arm from the back of Demyx’s chair to draw a circle in the air with his cigarette. “Meanwhile, her groom-to-be spends every spare second following around a certain tall, flirtatious red-head…” 

“Speak of the red devil,” Gibbs mumbles in near a hush, as if he fears he may actually have summoned them. 

Gibbs nods toward the pub’s crowded entrance. The door has just slammed open, banging into the wall, and in darts a scarecrow of a man in a glossy black coat and ostentatious, gold trimmed, captain’s hat that doesn’t quite smother a mane of pure Scottish red hair. The man looks around, nods, adjusting his coat, and glances over his shoulder. The door swings again, crying out on its hinges, and in sprints a short, slim black coat topped by a fine brown tricorn hat. He stands for a second, hands above his knees, catching his breath as the one in the captain’s hat squeezes his shoulder and whispers something that makes the smaller one glance up abruptly, grin, and swat the hand off. 

“They together?” Xigbar asks, leaning to see past other tables until he spots the pair. “Well, well, well. You’re a gambling man, Lucky. Tell me, what are the odds?” 

Luxord watches his coworkers’ entrance with a critical eye, but sees nothing unusual in the nuances of their brief, harried conversation. “Still slim to nothing, _Xiggy._ ” 

“Well, reckon, I ought to…” Gibbs starts, rising to go fetch them, only to find both of his arms held fast by Luxord and Xigbar, both of whom are looking not at him, but each other. 

“I bet you five hundred munny their lips will meet by the end of the night.”

“Is that a genuine wager?”

“Gibbs can set the terms.” 

“I’m listening.” 

They release Gibbs’ arms and he crosses them in thought. He’s presided over many a gamble and this one seems straightforward enough and relatively harmless to boot. He could set ground rules, but he can’t imagine these fellows will play by them, so best not to bother. 

Gibbs nods. “Five hundred... munny, was it?” The currency sounds almost made up, but the men nod. “And a free bar tab next time ‘round,” Gibbs adds to sweeten the pot and make the competition all the more entertaining. “If Red Jack and his bonny lad kiss by the end of the night, Sniper wins. If not, the Gambler and the Bard triumph.” He waggles his finger in the air seriously, “There’ll be no telling Red Jack and the cabin boy about the bet, otherwise anything goes.”

Xigbar reaches out a gloved palm and Luxord gives it a neat shake, before patting the thigh splayed across his. “Demyx? You in?”

“… you’re worse than that sea witch in Atlantica.” 

“Damn straight I am.” 

Demyx’s suddenly weary eyes examine the determined set of Xigbar’s jaw, the laughter lines born of a zillion cruel jokes crinkling at the edge of his eye. 

Demyx sighs heavily. “Ugh, fine.” He scoops up the deck of cards Luxord had passed him some time ago, and passes them back with his left hand while clasping Xigbar’s with his right. “But next time we are playing _Go Fish_.” 


	3. Pretty Things

They can smell it before they can see it—the delightfully rank aroma of rotting fish and the spike of salt air. The streetlamp above Axel and Roxas has long since been shattered to bits, but the island’s night air, split open with a silver knife of moon, is far brighter than the dark corridor the pair have passed through to get there, so they stand still for a moment, just blinking. 

They turn to each other, crinkling their noses against the stench. Axel tugs at the material of his coat nearest his thighs, showering the cobblestones underfoot with Agrabah sand, and Roxas chuckles, patting the sleeves of his own coat to free it from grime that had once coated the basement of the Beast’s Enchanted Castle.

Roxas stops patting puffs of dust from his uniform when Axel abruptly reaches for his cheek. At first Roxas thinks Axel’s going to caress it, and then, as the man’s fingers twitch, he thinks Axel is going to pinch him, _which is usually more Larxene or Xigbar’s department, but fine._

Instead, Axel gently plucks something from his skin. It catches the light for a moment and Roxas sees the faint glisten of an intricate spider’s web passing through the air before settling on the back of Axel’s hand.

“Ahg. _Gross,”_ Axel says, voice quiet in the darkness, shaking the offensive strands free.

“I don’t know,” Roxas responds thoughtfully, just as quiet. “I think they’re kind of beautiful.” The web tangles and drops to the cobblestone, and Roxas stares for a second, almost disappointed. 

Axel chuckles and briefly rubs his knuckles below Roxas’ chin. Axel can feel his chest warming, breathing in the same air as this impossible piece of nothing who can find the bright spot in everything, even Axel himself. “Of course you do.”

* *

After spending his day baking in the oven that was Agrabah, Axel welcomes the nip of the wind yanking at his coat like it wants him naked, but he can tell Roxas, who spent the better part of his day fending off the soul-sucking Heartless that swarm the dank smelling, drafty, damp castle basement of the Beast, does not appreciate it quite so much. Roxas’ shoulders slump against the insistent tug and with every sharp breeze, he grits his teeth to ward off the shivers he thinks Axel wouldn’t be able to resist teasing him about.

With each step Roxas veers slightly closer to Axel, until Roxas’ shoulder collides with Axel’s chest. Axel chuckles a bit, and then drapes both arms over Roxas’ shoulders, like a heavy scarf. As Axel’s unnaturally strong heat seeps into Roxas’ bones, Axel feels him relax against him despite his initial surprise at being held in such a public, albeit empty, location.

Abruptly, Axel shifts his hands until he’s hugging Roxas’ neck, one elbow locked over the other in a loose chokehold. Roxas yelps, halting, and Axel stops along with him, leaning forward to rest his chin in Roxas’ hair, soft as ever despite the lingering layer of dust.

Axel chuckles, low, slow. “What’s wrong?” he whispers into Roxas’ ear. “Chilly?”

Roxas mumbles something unintelligible into the material of Axel’s sleeve, and Axel laughs again, just a quick exhale, pressing the fabric closer to make Roxas huff, and then pulling it away. 

“I’m sorry,” Axel taunts quietly, “were you saying something?”

Golden eyebrows furrow. “I will fug you up,” Roxas says, words somewhat less muffled, no doubt a direct quote from one of the other Org members, though not quite as tough as he had hoped. This is made all the more ridiculous because Axel knows Roxas very well _could_ take him down, if the other keyblade wielder’s powers were any indication. 

Axel tries to push thoughts of Sora from his mind. _Just a kid..._ It makes him remember what guilt felt like, and even though the full weight of it can no longer freeze up his chest, it’s not exactly pleasant. 

Roxas shifts his head to glare up into the green eyes darting playfully as they take in Roxas’ piss poor impression of anger. Axel’s not sure he’s even fully convinced Roxas has reached actual _irritation._

“I’m shaking in my boots, Roxas.”

Roxas’ arms cross. He wriggles around to face Axel and better hit him with his glare, and Axel gives him the extra room to do so, his arms stretching out a bit, his thin lips drastically pulling up on one side.

Roxas’ chin juts up. “Good.”

Axel leans forward until their noses brush. He exhales, a white puff of air that bridges the distance between their lips. His eyes seem a darker green in the evening shadows. He stops smiling. _“Good,”_ Axel echoes. 

Roxas can’t contain his grin, and then, fast as he would dive at a Heartless with his blade, he’s tilting his head, rising up on his toes. His hands cup Axel’s jaw, rough with auburn stubble, and he presses their lips together. It’s not the bittersweet tingle of sea salt that they’re used to, or the familiar staleness of morning breath. Axel tastes like hot sand and Roxas like damp earth. But somehow that makes the moment feel all the realer. Not something dazed or dreamy that could slip away any second, but something concrete and imperfect: something real, something _theirs._

Axel’s arms wrap tighter around Roxas’ upper and lower back, pressing their torsos together like he thinks if he tries hard enough, they can melt into each other completely.

They only pull apart when they recognize the distant explosion of music and drunken chatter as the sound of a pub door being open and shut. The cacophony reminds them of their destination and the time crunch they were already on before they stopped.

Roxas sighs and turns back around, Axel’s arms still barring his chest and waist, and begins to take heavy steps to maneuver them forward, though Axel’s heels drag the first few feet.

But, it being Tortuga, and Roxas being Roxas, Axel knows it will not be long before his steps slow, and Axel’s pace has to quicken to make up for it. Axel doesn’t mind. He kind of adores Roxas’ constant state of distraction, his abrupt fascination with window displays and passing strangers and snippets of sound. 

Maybe because of his amnesia, Roxas seems to have retained more curiosity, interest, passion for life than the other Nobodies, and Axel can’t help but find it amusing, hell—mildly intoxicating—to get sucked into. He’s grown used to Roxas asking a million questions, stupid or brilliant and seemingly nothing in between. 

He likes that Roxas thinks Axel has all the answers. He even likes when Roxas shows a flicker of the growing realization that Axel _doesn’t_ have all the answers. Then again, there’s not much about Roxas he doesn’t like.

However, Roxas has seen Tortuga before on multiple occasions and walks with surprising intent. It’s not until they pass a hatter’s shop that his pace begins to flag, eyes shifting off to the side more and more often, head starting to tilt. Axel is forced to suppress a fond sigh.

“You want one?” 

The window’s nothing special as far as Axel’s concerned. A bare bones wooden shelf displays rows of captains’ and sailors’ hats in chestnut brown, night black, and ash gray leathers, festooned with all manners of ribbons, feathers, brooches, and embroidery. But for Roxas, who has no memory of owning something of his own, aside from his standard issue Organization coat, slacks, and boots, and a few stray popsicle sticks, Axel can see that it means more. 

“It’s stupid,” Roxas says, though his eyes linger, because he’s used to being told anything that he takes an interest in is, by the other members, certainly, if not by an unthinking Axel himself.

“If liking pretty things is stupid,” Axel squeezes Roxas’ shoulder, and a lick of flame springs to life in his free hand to illuminate fair skin, fire blue eyes, the faintest sweep of freckles, “we’ll both be stupid together.”

Roxas’ cute little nose crinkles, his lip quirks up, eyes narrowing. “You don’t like pretty things.”

Axel’s face tilts closer to Roxas’, his smile mild, his words more whisper than sound and more to himself than to Roxas, “Says the boy I take to the top of a clocktower every damn day so I can watch the light of the sunset play in his hair.”

Roxas’ chest does that hot mushy thing, that thing like his arm’s been clawed open, but on the inside. He smiles so hard it hurts.

Axel closes his glove around the flame and the light goes out, Roxas’ dark lashes fluttering as his eyes attempt to readjust. Axel straightens and shifts behind Roxas, resting his chin atop Roxas’ head again.

Roxas tilts his head up searching for eyes, hunter green in the sinking evening, Axel’s sharp features, all highlighted with affection and concern like no one else has ever shown him. And Roxas has been told over and over that the emotions shown by a Nobody aren’t real, that they’re just a reflection, an echo of what used to be, but when it’s Axel showing them, he can’t bring himself to care. 

Axel’s smiles, laughs, and kisses may be edged with briars of hollowness, reluctance, distance, but at the end of the day, they’re the only smiles, laughs, and kisses anybody’s ever given him. Maybe they’re not supposed to be enough, but they are. And maybe he’s not supposed to believe them, but he does. 

Maybe it’s like Xigbar says and Axel’s possessiveness isn’t really _love. (Whatever the fuck_ love _is.)_ But if it isn’t, Roxas doesn’t want to know. 

If it isn’t, he figures it’s close enough.

Roxas’ words aren’t much more than a whisper, either, “I think you’re pretty, too.”

Axel’s smile slips, taken aback, but he recovers in half a second, smirks. “Well, whaddaya know?” He lifts his chin, ruffling Roxas’ perpetually messy hair, before linking their arms together and drawing him a few steps closer to the hat shop. “C’mon, let’s step inside for just a minute.”

Pulled out of the moment with a sharp laugh, Roxas’ heels drag, catching against the dirty cobblestones of the street. “But it’s locked!”

“Roxas,” Axel claps Roxas’ arm, words wheedling as ever, “you wield the _key_ -blade, not the _but-it’s-locked_ -blade.”

Roxas grimaces, glancing down the dimly lit street though the pub they’re headed toward isn’t yet in sight. He notes no Heartless, no obstructions. It won’t take them long to get where they’re going. _But…_ “Luxord won’t be happy if we’re late.”

“Eh.” Axel shrugs. “We’re already late.”

Roxas stares at him for a second and then his gaze returns to the window, the hats, all that flair and personality and glossy leather. He grins brightly, his keyblade materializing in his hand in a brief flash of golden light. “Okay. But we’re just going to look.”

“Of course, we are.”

* * 

The hat shop is dark and smells like shoe polish and sunned leather. Axel lights another flame in his gloved hand to illuminate a space crowded with sun-bleached shelves and tables, dapper manikins, and tilting racks sporting its wares. A lone cutlass hangs just above the door and sand smatters across tired wooden floorboards.

Their resolution to _just look_ lasts approximately zero seconds, as Axel grabs the first hat within grabbing distance and, with flourish, caps Roxas’ head. As Roxas turns to search for a mirror, the leather immediately slips in front of his eyes, setting them both into a quiet fit of giggles. 

It takes a fair bit of searching—both grateful for their practiced, quiet steps on the warped, creaky floorboards—before they locate hats in a small enough size that the petite young man can wear them without his vision being obscured. 

After parading Roxas before the mirror in increasingly absurd styles, each more feathery and frilly than the last, Axel finds a sturdy, glossy brown tricorn, a reliable, trusty hat, its only ornament stitched X’s on either side. This one suits Roxas just so, his nervous smile twitching into something real. 

Humming, he runs his thumb across the bottom rim, tilting it ever so slightly. He meets his own eye in the mirror, and then Axel’s. “This one.”

“That one,” Axel agrees. 

“Your turn.” 

Axel takes a step back, raising his palms in half-hearted argument. “I don’t need—” 

But Roxas has set off, away from the mirror, at a determined pace, and Axel just shakes his head, watching the strong cut of Roxas’ back as he shifts, lifts, and replaces hats on this shelf and that one. Eventually, Roxas finds his way to the front window, and Axel paces just after him, once again filling his hand with a small flame to illuminate their way. 

After staring for a long while, Roxas selects a single elegant ebony captain’s hat from the center of the display. Its edges are rimmed with a delicate dark gold embroidery and just above the left ear sits an elegant emerald feather with gold accents, just the shade of Axel’s eyes. 

“This one,” Axel realizes, accepting the hat Roxas sets into his hands, and placing it above his unkempt red curls. 

Roxas nods. “That one.” He catches Axel’s hand in his and tugs him over to the scratched, speckled, but probably once beautiful, looking glass he’d modeled in front of a few minutes earlier.

Axel looks fierce and fine at once, the plume and his violet tattoos offering just a hint of the exotic. Roxas can’t seem to tear his eyes away, Axel notices with an unexpectedly warm feeling.

“We could almost be,” Roxas tilts his head, trying to decide how to phrase it, “...like everybody else…” 

“Roxas…” Axel’s voice takes on a carefully casual warning, turning away from their reflections to face the real thing, “we can’t ever really—” A flash of gold flickers in the corner of his vision, sending a cool prickle up his spine. The thoughts evaporate as he whirls, a chakram appearing in his hand as he crouches. 

Roxas is quick to follow suit, scanning the area Axel’s edging in on, until he spots an itty-bitty Shadow climbing out of the floor, off in a shadowy corner near the cash register. Ordinarily, Axel would evaporate it and be done with the matter, but he can’t risk sending the building up in flames. 

He gives his chakram a spin and steps closer, directing his next words to the tiny monster, “Didn’t anybody tell you it’s our night off?”

“Careful,” Roxas cautions, but Axel’s already tossed his weapon, his aim true, and the little Heartless fizzles out in a fine black mist, the chakram clanging loudly as it plunges into the wall beyond.

Immediately, they hear the scrape of claws and a stern bark, which resonates throughout the entire room. 

“Shit,” Axel curses. 

A large, fluffy white dog surges forward from the shadows where it had been deep in slumber, reminding Roxas warily of the massive purple and green dog-like Heartless that had near squashed him with their girth just hours prior. Jangling rings high in their ears as the dog is stopped abruptly, a chain attached to the collar around its neck going taut. The dog goes silent, surprised.

“Thank the gods,” Axel hisses, backing away, his chakram reappearing in his hands. Roxas follows after, backpedaling swiftly, his keyblade materializing in a dazzling shower of light. 

This turns out to be too much for the dog, which begins yapping once more with vigor. 

“Shit.”

A staircase occupies the far side of the wall, and atop it, lights flicker on. No longer concerned with stepping lightly, Axel and Roxas turn and barrel out of the shop. 

“Stop!” 

As they hit the dark street, the smell of leather and polish replaced with briny salt and scales, Axel and Roxas glance up to see the window of the room above the shop, its shutters thrown open and a man in a nightcap leaning out it, his graying bearded face fixed in a violent scowl. 

“Stop this instant, ya bloody thieving pirates!”

Axel and Roxas do not stop. Holding tight to their accidentally stolen hats, they sprint, and the man gives chase, surprisingly swift in step despite his generous gut. But Axel and Roxas glide over the uneven stone streets, used to sudden exertion and unafraid of the threat of the man’s waving cutlass.

The crowds of sailors, pirates, and merchants grow denser the closer they get to Gibbs’ pub and they manage to give the hatter the slip in a back alley. Axel pushes his way inside first, the door near slamming the side wall, and then stops, leaning against a wall, choking over rapid breaths and sharp laughter. Roxas enters a minute later, sparing a final wary glance outside, before Axel's arm catches him around the shoulders and steers him out of the threshold, elbow jabbing him in the side to help him get a handle on himself.

“ _We’re just going to look,”_ Roxas repeats. “You said we were just going _to_ _look!_ ”

Axel hasn’t stopped grinning their entire escape and he doesn’t stop now. “Worth it.”

Roxas shakes his head, bemused, “How was it _worth_ it?”

“I look really sexy in this hat.” Axel leans in until his lips near brush Roxas’ ear, and whispers, “and you look really sexy in that one.”

“Luxord is going to kill us!” Roxas squirms away, but he doesn’t completely manage to fend off his smile, even as he declares, “I’m never talking to you again.”

Axel sets a hand on Roxas’ bicep, tugging him closer to the bar, and tilts his head, pretending to contemplate this. “That’s going to make it a little difficult to kiss you.”

“I’m never kissing you again, either.”

“We’ll see about that.”


	4. Hearts and Spades

Gibbs’ tavern smells of salt, rum, tobacco, baking bread, and split lips. Its floorboards creak beneath Axel and Roxas’ boots as they dodge dodgy looking pirates and sturdy wooden tables loaded with tankards of ale, trays of meat and cheeses, maps, dice, and playing cards.

Axel nearly knocks over a candle as he goes (though he manages to snuff it with his magic before it hits the alcohol-soaked floorboards and sends the whole place up), and Roxas _does_ knock solidly into the chest of a clean-shaven old mammoth. Roxas quickly leans back to take stock of his opponent. 

The man stands out, even among the pirates. His dark hair is tied off from his weathered brown face with a red bandana, and one of his eyes appears to be false. It glints gold like a gem that’s caught the sun. One of his arms has been replaced with a hunk of machinery, ending in skeletal iron fingers, which he clenches into a fist, as he looms over Roxas. The man scowls, flashing a gold tooth, his good hand landing on the hilt of his sword. 

For a second Roxas suspects the man will threaten to carve out his liver. The man whose drink Roxas had spilled last time certainly had, and, come to think of it, so had Larxene once or twice when Roxas, still half-asleep, had borrowed her toothpaste in one of the Organization’s communal bathrooms. Adrenaline spiking as if he has come across a strong Heartless, Roxas curls his own fists, plants his feet, and stares back with stony, fearless determination. 

The man’s mouth dips open a little bit in response, his dark brows lifting. “Eh?” he mumbles, and, as it becomes increasingly clear the young sailor in front of him isn’t backing down, the pirate tosses his head back, releasing a roaring, full belly laugh. His meaty hand thumps Roxas on the shoulder, near sending him into another table. 

“Atta boy, killer!” the man teases, voice pleasant though thunderous. He gives Roxas’ shoulder a final squeeze, and begins to swagger past him. “Shown me how it’s done, eh?” He flashes a final crooked smile over his shoulder that reveals a silver and copper tooth, and then goes on his merry way. 

“Thanks for the back up,” Roxas snipes over his own shoulder. 

Axel had done nothing but watch this exchange, his lip curving up in the beginnings of a smile as it progressed. Now Axel sweeps his arm back around Roxas’ shoulder and resumes steering them the rest of the way to the two lone, vacant seats at the closest edge of the long, polished, already overcrowded bar. The air begins to burn their noses with the tang of alcohol and salt and then soothe them with rich undertones of barley and grain. 

“Y’know, _Roxas,”_ Axel taps Roxas’ nose though it makes his face scrunch up in confusion, “first time we brought you here, I was a touch concerned about taking a sheltered, young, amnesiac zombie and shoving him into a dimly-lit tavern crawling with drunken sea-farers. Most of ‘em raring for a fight,” Axel gestures to an unsavory looking fellow grabbing at the shirt front of another and shouting obscenities on their left, “or else looking for someone to take up with for the night,” he continues and winks at Roxas before gesturing toward a couple making out atop a table to their right, their tattooed limbs a spiderlike tangle.

“...Most of whom are twice your size and age,” Axel’s thumb jerks over his shoulder to indicate the fellow Roxas had most recently encountered, “and even more of whom are armed to the teeth.” Axel slides aside the thick coat of a young sailor they’re passing by to reveal the glossy gleam of a pistol and lets it drop before the sailor notices. 

“But,” Axel slips the hand not leading Roxas by the shoulder into his own pocket, and tilts his head to fix his narrow emerald eyes at Roxas, who has shown no reaction to any of this, and half grin, “then I realized how incredibly stupid that was of me.” 

Roxas nods, sparing secondary glances to the activities Axel had pointed out to see if they make him remember, think, react— _feel?_ —anything, and finding they do not. “Yeah. That was kind of stupid.” Unlike the other worlds, overflowing with the exotic, strange, and new, here the muscled sailors’ glowers, leers, drunken philosophical ramblings, and fondness for leather and steel fill the tavern with a sense of the familiar. “This place is just like home.” 

Axel stops abruptly to choke on this comparison of this roaring pub of lively criminals to the stuck-up, soulless killers back in the echoing silence of the Castle That Never Was. It occurs to him that the Castle is the only “home” Roxas remembers ever knowing. He thinks if he could, he’d feel bad for the guy, and resolves (not for the first time) to take him more places if he can. Roxas looks entirely unconcerned with the matter, or the merry-making and in-fighting surrounding him.

“You’re fucking fearless, ya know that?” 

Roxas grins back, though the hollow in his chest throbs when he recalls a week prior when Xigbar had told him Axel wasn’t coming back from Castle Oblivion. “I know.” 

Axel shakes his head and briefly cards his fingers through Roxas’ hair, though it makes Roxas groan and fuss. “Hey,” Axel pauses in the mid-fluff as Roxas opens his mouth to curse at him, “thought you weren’t talking to me?” 

Roxas freezes, caught, and then closes his mouth with a playful huff and gives Axel’s hand a final bat away. 

Reaching the bar, Axel seats himself on one of the weathered barrels of ale that double for bar stools, and leans on his other palm, calling out to the bartender, “Two piña coladas, Julian.”

Roxas nudges Axel’s shoulder and gives him a pointed look—undoubtedly a silent reprimand for harassing the employee.

The barkeep rolls his eyes and turns back to the barrels on tap, beside the shelves of dusty old bottles, their labels faded and peeling or nonexistent. “If I’ve told you once, I told you a thousand times…” the barkeep takes two strong-smelling tankards of ale, brimming with foam and sets them in front of Axel and Roxas, “we ain’t got none a that fancy prince shit.”

Axel pulls the mug closer and tilts his head, considering Roxas, now settled on the next barrel over. He seems at ease despite their earlier hostile encounters, as any Nobody would be, and is glancing curiously at the bar staff brushing past each other, hoisting trays of overflowing tankards with practiced ease. 

Roxas opens his mouth and turns back to Axel to point out some insightful detail Axel would never have noticed in a thousand years. Meeting teasing green eyes, he promptly shuts it again, apparently more intent on his vow of silence now that Axel has ( _Stupidly,_ he reflects) reminded him of it. Axel’s smile widens. In his peripheral, he notices their own bartender has finished jotting down their tab and begun to stalk off, the tail of his braid swishing. Axel raises his tankard in salute, “There’s always next time, Julian.”

Roxas snorts in disbelief. 

The barkeep whirls back around, his palm slapping the counter. The red-headed pirate has a way of flirting with his lover via pissing his lover off via pissing everyone else off, and the barkeep doesn’t have time for it this evening. “And my name’s _not_ Julian. It’s—”

“Jim,” Roxas finds himself supplying, earning a curious eyebrow raise, elbow nudge, and smirk from Axel. 

The barkeep whirls to narrow his eyes at him. “Yeah. It’s Jim.”

“Well,” Axel reasons shrugging a shoulder, “you look more like a Julian.”

“Thanks for the drinks, Jim,” Roxas says, with a small, sincere smile that enhances Axel’s awareness of the vacancy in his chest, and makes Jim drop his scowl for a moment. 

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” Jim mutters and slumps off to help another customer. 

Roxas lifts his drink, and Axel opens his mouth to say something clever or jealous or some combination of the two, but the pair of them are interrupted as the door to the bar swings open. The clanging of its iron hinges fails to be as distracting as the shouting that follows it. “Where are they?” demands an unfortunately familiar voice. “Where the fuck’d they go?” 

* *

Gibbs motions between Demyx and Xigbar, and they squeeze hands in a way that feels more intimate than competitive. Gibbs tilts his head to the side, and Demyx sighs, shifting his leg from Xigbar’s lap and hoisting himself up to catch Luxord’s outstretched palm in his. 

Demyx’s handshake is quick and loose, a watered-down, noncommittal thing, not unreflective, Luxord thinks, of the man himself. Luxord is about to advise him on how to improve it to better impress his superiors, when he catches sight of Axel and Roxas again, just beyond one of Demyx’s bony shoulders. 

Axel slides his hand through Roxas’ hair, quickly ruffling it, pieces slipping through his fingers like he’s examining the texture, and although Roxas appears to rebuff him, the gesture’s bizarre enough that Luxord decides not to share this incident with his companions. 

“Hm,” he mumbles to himself. 

Xigbar has one hand on Demyx’s hip poised to draw him back into his lap. Now that the poker game is a bust, and he’s placed the most skewed bet in the history of his long ass life, he needs something to occupy himself with. 

“Hm?” Xigbar echoes and stands instead, drawing Demyx flush to his chest, as his attention shifts to Luxord. Shadows flicker across his unblemished golden skin in the candlelight. Xigbar traces his analytical blue gaze across the tavern to their coworkers, standing too close together, as always, bumping elbows and shoulders like the flirtatious kids they are. 

“It appears Axel and Roxas haven’t spotted us. They’ve made off to the bar,” Luxord explains instead, unnecessarily, as they watch the pair climb onto barrel stools. Axel gestures for their first round.

“Tell me you didn’t see Axel’s arm around him,” Xigbar challenges, though in truth he hadn’t looked soon enough to see anything of the kind.

“It’s crowded,” Luxord counters. “They’re trying to stay together.”

Demyx nods along, though, pressed up against Xigbar, he’s finding it harder to pay attention or care to much other than his strong, warm muscles, secure around him.

Gibbs gives up the pretense of polishing the candlestick at the center of their table and fumbles to replace it, dripping molten wax down the side of the faux silver and his own hand in his hurry to observe for himself. No one is looking his way, but they can hear his smug smile. “Perhaps, the young men wanted to steal a few more moments _alone_ together.” 

Luxord scowls, the image of Axel’s fingers rustling Roxas’ hair replaying in his mind. 

_Perhaps the gesture hadn’t been as breezy and habitual as it seemed._

_Or perhaps it was merely another one of Axel’s few remaining personality quirks like draping his arm around Saïx. Smiling too much. Laughing at inappropriate times._

_Regardless, it hardly proves Xigbar’s point._

Luxord glares Gibbs’ way with enough intensity that the old man’s (in reality, rather mild, fond) smile slips. “Perhaps, we should have asked someone less biased to oversee our wager.”

“ _Perhaps,_ ” Xigbar croons, vanishing and reappearing back in his chair, one arm spreading across the back like a king, and the other still wrapping Demyx’s waist, “they can’t see us because I don’t want ‘em to see us.” 

Finding himself abruptly relocated, Demyx squawks and straightens, his bouffant bouncing, reminding Luxord of a startled cockatoo straightening its ruffled feathers.

Eyes on his newest patrons at the bar, Gibbs hasn’t noticed anything amiss. In the distance, a barmaid catches him staring and whistles for him. Gibbs raises a hand to her, climbing out of his seat, but noticing the sudden static in the air between Luxord and Xigbar, he lingers for a moment, halted by his own curiosity. His hands rub the back of his chair. “Anything else you gentlemen’ll be needing, then?”

“You…” Luxord starts and stops, distracted by his attempt to read Xigbar’s face, looking for a tell to explain his previous claim, though Nobodies tend not to have any, and he doesn’t find one. He scowls as the silence stretches, and Gibbs does not depart. He hastily waves his gloved hand in dismissal. “We’ll send if we need you. Go on back to work, old boy.”

“But, I, er…” Gibbs wrings the rag in his hand, but fails to come up with a viable excuse to stay, especially with the barkeep still calling for him. “Of course, sirs.” He nods and steps off to return to running his business. 

Luxord shifts his glare to Xigbar. “Explain yourself.” 

Xigbar shifts his lips from the back of Demyx’s neck. His broad shoulders lift in an easy shrug, before he slides Demyx’s drink over from the seat beside him. “They’ll never kiss with us hovering over ‘em.” 

Demyx accepts the tankard with a thoughtful expression. “Wish this had an umbrella straw.”

Xigbar grins. “So fucking particular...”

“It certainly hasn’t stopped the pair of you,” Luxord notes coolly.

Xigbar’s grin widens into a threat, head tilting. “Yeah, well, there ain’t anybody stupid enough to mock me for it, is there? Let alone snitch to Xemnas...” 

Demyx sets his drink down, froth lingering on the side of his mouth. “You mean _us.”_

“I mean me, sugar,” Xigbar thumbs the foam aside, smile turning indulgent, “but that’s real cute.”

Luxord frowns as Demyx turns up his nose and feigns indignance, shuffling his cards. “You’re saying you’ve used your magic to assure they won’t come over here in order to level the playing field.”  
  
Xigbar shifts his hand, the leather of his glove glossy in the torchlight flickering from the battered tavern wall, and for a moment they can see the gleam of an invisible barrier distorting their table from view of the new arrivals. 

“I must admit I’m impressed.” Luxord sits back, and they all watch the cards bridge and waterfall seamlessly together. “However, I see a major flaw in your strategy. What’s to prevent Axel and Roxas from simply _leaving?”_ _  
_  
Xigbar picks up his mug again, tilting it Luxord’s way in concession. “They leave, I guess you win. But…” he takes a sip, “you think they’re going to forfeit their one night out this whole damn month to go back to the castle and, what,” he sets the mug down, “canoodle? _Sleep?_ ” Beneath the table, his hand begins stroking the inside of Demyx’s thigh. “C’mon. They ain’t gonna do that.”

“Hate to say it, but Xiggy’s kinda got a point.” Demyx raises a finger, gestures it across the bar. “They, ah,” Demyx inhales sharply and shifts in Xigbar’s lap, though Xigbar’s expression remains stoic, “they just got here! It’s party time, dude.” 

Luxord glances back across the tavern, in part to avoid observing his companions’ heavy petting, (especially considering said heavy petting is redirecting his own blood flow in an unexpectedly southern direction). 

Axel appears to be haranguing a bartender, and Roxas has turned away in embarrassment, blatantly ignoring him. He’d been foolish to doubt himself. _They’re different suits. Sharp and soft. The Jack and the Joker. The assassin and the sacrifice. The heart and the spade._

“Fine.” He turns back to them and sets down the cards in a neat stack. “I hardly expected you to play fair. I accept this additional challenge. We’ll wait and see what the rogues get up to. In the meantime, however, we’ll need to find something to occupy our hands.”

Xigbar sportingly shifts both hands to Demyx’s stomach, fingers wriggling. Demyx giggles, a bit of his drink dripping from his nose though Xigbar has barely touched him yet. 

“Not _him_ ,” Luxord chastises quickly and even more wearily. 

“Oh?” Xigbar moves one clawed hand toward Luxord, eyebrow cocking. “Where are my manners? Did _you_ want a turn, pretty boy?”

“My good fellow, not all of us came here to get l—” Luxord shakes his head, reassessing his move and opting to simply swat Xigbar’s hand down and continue, “Poker is still off the table, but perhaps Demyx could point us to a less mentally strenuous game to occupy ourselves as we observe our colleagues across the way.” 

Luxord slides the deck to Demyx once more, and he lights up immediately.

“Oh yeah, baby,” Demyx’s grin is eager, open-mouthed, as he flexes his fingers outward. “It’s Demyx time.” He scoops up the deck as if he has been waiting to do so for the past ten minutes. “Are you dudes ready to get smashed at Go Fish?”

Luxord’s lip twitches up, and he begins stacking and shifting bread plates. “Deal me in.”  
  
Demyx can feel the vibration of Xigbar’s silent laughter at his back, as he massages the arm Demyx is using to deal cards across the scratched and stained tabletop. His voice drops, huskier, but unfortunately for Luxord, still plenty audible, “If anything’s going to get smashed tonight, baby, it’s going to be your—” 

Xigbar cuts himself off, as the resounding slam of the front door gives way to manic shouting. Abrupt silence emanates from the front of the bar and spreads in a wave, until all they can hear is the ring of glasses settling and tankards clinking back to tabletops.

“The fuck’s going on over there?” 

At the tavern entrance, a man in a robe and a night cap yells and waves a hefty looking torch, which makes his unsheathed cutlass flash gold. 

“Where are they?” the man roars. “Where the fuck’d they go?”

“That lunatic’s going to burn this whole place to the ground!” Demyx hisses.

Xigbar gives the water wielder’s arm a reassuring pat, eye shifting to meet Luxord’s. “Well, this hand just got a lot more interesting.”

* *

Boots slap against the ground, weapons belts clank, and heavy coats rustle as the sailors make way for the tavern owner. Gibbs shimmies past his workers to step out from behind the bar, tossing a towel over his shoulder and taking his time wading through the parting crowd toward the hostile newcomer. 

“Well, hullo there!” Gibbs calls brightly, waving with his whole arm, seemingly unaware of the half dozen pirates and waiters falling into step behind him like armed guards might a king. “Out for a nice evening stroll, are we?” 

The hatter’s torch lowers a fraction, orange flame wavering. It illuminates the mildly baffled expression on his face. _“Wot?”_

“You’re in naught but your knickers, sir, if you don’t mind me sayin’!” Gibbs laughs. “Was ye sleep-walking about the town and decided to stop in for a pint?” 

The hatter glances down, his face turning rose petal pink, and not from its proximity to the fire hovering near it. He looks up again, reestablishing his glare. “No!” he roars with a ferocity difficult to distinguish from some of Gibbs’ more intoxicated patrons and half as intimidating coming from the stout, pajama-clad merchant.

Gibbs blinks back, furry white caterpillar eyebrows rising mildly, the sailors behind him muttering to each other. 

Chastened, the hatter’s voice evens out, “I’m looking for someone.” 

_“Ah…”_ Gibbs scratches at his bearded jaw and offers a knowing smirk. “’m afraid we don’t cater to _those_ vices here. You’ll be wanting the cathouse for that, good sir.” He gestures back out the door and indicates a left-hand turn. “Right on down the way. You can’t miss it.” 

“N-no—” the hatter sputters, going pinker. “Damn it. I’m looking for two _men._ One tall n’ red-headed and the other scrawny n’ gold—”

* *

Smoke drifts up above the Organization’s table to join the general tavern haze, curling from the cigarette in Xigbar’s mouth. It bobs as he shakes his head fondly, sweeping up and fanning out the seven cards Demyx dealt him. “Those goddamn idiots are gonna get themselves strung up.” 

Luxord slides his own cards into his palm. “Now that _would_ be romantic.”

“Hey.” Demyx stops rearranging his own cards and sets them down. He shifts his head toward the commotion at the front door, stray strands of hair flipping away from his eyes. “You don’t think crazy pants over there means Axel and Roxas, do you?”

* *

Gibbs winks at the hatter. “ _Ah._ Can’t say as I don’t fancy a red-head too, mate.” He conspiratorially elbows a bearded pirate that stands at his side, who hoots with laughter. “But, woman or no, it does nit matter—as I said, right on down the way—” He motions again, out the pub and down the lane, dimly lit at this time of night, with half its lanterns long since shattered by drunken passers-by. 

“No—I—I’m not…” The frown lines in the hatter’s face sharpen with embarrassment and rage, and then he thrusts his arm out, his cutlass slashing and his torch flaring up. “They robbed me!” he bellows before Gibbs can squeeze in another quip edgewise. “The men I’m looking for broke into me shop ‘n robbed two of me hats!” The hatter’s eyes search the crowd, darting and frantic, like a half-starved hawk. 

* *

“Shit.” Roxas ducks lower in his seat, his body so tense Axel can feel it from the next seat over, even before Roxas hisses his name and reaches over to clasp his arm, his grip painfully strong and callused from days spent hefting an enormous metal key. _“Axel.”_

Axel’s drink sloshes across the countertop, but he doesn’t notice. He focuses on making his voice the genuine kind of sweet, softer, “Just sit tight, baby.” It’s been a while and he’s not sure he gets it right. He moves his hand to the small of Roxas’ back and massages the leather, still chilled from the night air and dusty from the Beast’s castle. Axel’s other hand raises to tip Roxas’ hat a smidge back over his telltale golden hair. “We’ll fade right into the scenery.” 

With his signature scowl, Jim, the bartender steps up and sweeps a damp cloth across the counter to mop up Axel’s spill. “You two’ve had a busy night, huh?” His words have an unpleasant slant to them.  
  
“Don’t know what you mean,” Axel hedges easily, giving Roxas’ back a last rub before wrapping both hands around his drink again, though the metal is slightly sticky from the sloshing. 

Jim rolls his eyes, blatantly. _“Right…”_

“The night is young. We’re just getting started.” Axel takes another slow sip and barely manages not to snort when Roxas’ drink spurts through his nose in response.

* *

“What we looking for, Demy? Straights? Flush?”

“Pairs.”

 _“Pairs?_ Fuck. _”_ Xigbar slaps his cards back on the table, and prepares to distract Demyx from this game he’s already not likely to win. Instead he finds himself distracted by something across the room, just past Demyx’s ear. “There.” He points abruptly. “Look, right there!”  
  
Luxord’s eyes dart briefly between his hand and Xigbar. “If you’re trying to steal a look at our cards, you’re going to have to be sharper than that.” 

“Yeah,” Demyx seconds, though, he had, in fact, looked. 

“Axel’s got his hand on Roxas’ back,” Xigbar hisses.

“That doesn’t sound terribly untoward, mate.” 

“If it’s not untoward,” Xigbar reaches out to set his own hand to the base of Luxord’s spine, thumb massaging, “then you won’t mind if I do it to you.”

Luxord catches Xigbar’s wrist in his hand, and tries to twist it up to no avail for a few tense seconds, until, with a smug smile, Xigbar lets him pry him off. 

Luxord tries to ignore the burn up his spine, sets his hand on the tabletop, and nods. “Very well.” Luxord rises to his feet and peers Axel and Roxas’ direction, again noting the thin mirror of reflective magic blocking their table from their coworkers view. “I don’t see anything.”  
  
Xigbar glances back with a scowl of disbelief, but Luxord is right and the guys are back to nursing their drinks again. “Yeah, well, now that you took all day about it, they’ve stopped.”  
  
“How convenient for you.”

“Not fucking really…” Xigbar mutters, lifting his hand, his scowl shattering into laughter at another distant quip from Gibbs. 

* *

“Two hats stolen, you say?” Gibbs repeats in a mock-flabbergasted bellow, sweeping his hat and hand over his heart. “Saints alive!” He glances to the pirates and sailors clustering behind him, a twinkle in his eye. “Robbery!” he repeats to them with the same exaggerated vigor, “I’ll be damned!” 

“Sir, you _patronize_ me,” the hatter bites coldly, fists clenching, weapon straightening with another dangerous glint. 

“Not at all, not at all, sir,” Gibbs assures, turning back. “Sounds like a matter fer the police is all. Coppers’ office’ll be right on down the way, ‘cross street from the cathouse.” He gestures for a third time out the door and down the lane. “Ye can’t miss it.”

“I know the salty crooks came this way, and I’ll be damned if I’ll leave without finding ‘em!” The hatter steps forward, his polished boot squealing against the floorboard, he gestures broadly outward with cutlass. His face is red as an iron stovetop, and Gibbs half expects his ears to start steaming and shrieking. “Why, I’ll search the whole damned tavern if I have to!”

Gibbs lifts his hands in the air as if easing a bucking bronco. “Oy, I understand, sir, being a man of business myself and all. But you see,” he gestures back over his shoulders and at this, dozens of the sailors behind him pull their swords and pistols from their waists, “you may find my friends here less obliging, and I, being but one man, could hardly stop all of them, could I?” He gives the hatter a soft, knowing smile. 

“I…” The hatter raises his torch but the orange gleam only serves to highlight the flashes of metal of the pistols and blades. The sheer number of pirates, seems to be doubling by the second. The breeze from a nearby window whips through his thin pajamas. He begins to feel quite small in comparison.. “I…” With a final ounce of desperation, he plants his feet once more and jabs toward them with his torch with the grace of a child with a stick sword. “Bring me the thieves or I’ll burn this den of debauchery to the ground.” 

* *

Roxas nudges Axel, who grins and snaps his fingers. The torch winks out, leaving only a faint tuft of smoke behind it. The only sounds to be heard in the pub are the sharp intake of the hatters’ breath and the crinkle of a wine glass shattering against the floor as it slips through Jim’s fingertips.

* *

“Shit,” says the hatter.

“You were saying?” says Gibbs.

The hatter’s cutlass clatters to the ground. “I’ll be going now,” he manages weakly, and then he turns with another squelch of his boot and sweeps out of the pub into the cool breeze of night, with naught but his pajamas to protect him.

“Pleasant evening, sir,” Gibbs calls after, and then strides back toward the bar, leaving roaring laughter in his wake. “Come again, soon!” 


End file.
